THE DOVAHKIIN TALES
by Vilinturuth
Summary: A story of a petty criminal, who tries to escape from his recent capture; while other events, darker ones, unfold in his world unknown to others... events that will transform a group of unrelated people into something they had never dreamed of...
1. prologue

_This is my first fanfiction of the elder scroll V: Skyrim. First of all i would like to make it clear that i do not own anything of the elder scroll series, they are owned by bethesda softworks. But I did include and apply some names that I came up with to give the story a bit more immersion and enrich it's environment. _

_Any sort of feedback and criticisms (positive and/or negative) are very very welcome and badly needed. Thank you in advance for reading :)._

**(THE TALE OF THE DOVAHKIIN)**

**(PROLOGUE) THE RISING**

The night was perfect for the hunt. The wispy clouds, remnants of the ashen blanket that brought the terrible snowstorm two nights ago now floated meekly across the sky; playing hide-and-seek with the Masser and Secunda, the two watchers; Eyes of Lorkhan; the twin moons of Nirn. Their little game provided enough light to get a clear view of the surroundings, yet enough shadow to become invisible if the need arose. A soft wind was blowing towards him, rustling the leaves of the snow-laden pines. The wind brought with itself the soft smell of snow, the somewhat pungent odour of the pine-cones, the sweet smell of the hardy mountain flowers that grow in this area, and something else... a smell that set his stomach to a low rumble, and made his mouth water uncontrollably. He licked his lips.

The origin of the smell in question was resting just about two hundred paces away from him; a plump doe with three pairs of straight little horns growing over her forehead and a huge limp on her left hind-leg. He had been following her for two days now, ever since the snowstorm and her bad leg got her seperated from her herd. At first she tried to find her way back, but the snow covered the tracks of the herd so well that she gave up after some time and started wandering about aimlessly... picking a small path that lead them to the huge forest glade that they were in right now. All this time he had followed her closely, albeit maintaining a healthy distance; as the wind was blowing towards her. He had to muster all his experience from his many years as a hunter to remain invisible to her. Now tired from her wanderings, she had finally chosen to settle down under the huge goldencone pine at the very far edge of the glade, just when fate chose to favour him and changed the direction of the wind, the first time in his two days of pursuit. His stomach rumbled again.

He let it die out in vain, ignoring its pleas for jumping into action then and there, to satisfy the most primordial need, Hunger. He knew there was nothing to be gained from being hasty. Though almost everything was going for him now, there was one thing he had to be wary of, and it was the glade itself. The simple fact that it was large, Very large. Larger than any forest opening he had seen in his life, and very silent. In fact not even a single sound can be heard, a thing very unusual at night in a forest this size. As if the denizens of the forest were mortally afraid of the area. It was a perfect circle, its rim formed by a ring of conifers; greencones and goldencones growing side by side; along with an assortment of junipers and pricklewoods. At its widest, the clearing was three hundred paces wide. Unusually enough, even all the trees seemed to give it a wide berth; not even a tuft of grass grew inside the circle. Only things that were present in the clearing were the group of strange rocks jutting out of the snow covered ground surrounding, judging by the smell; a circular area of bare soil. It rose slightly above the level of the ground he was standing on, covering almost whole of the clearing. The bare area gave him an uneasy feeling... a feeling that spoke of an ancient power sleeping deep beneath the bowels of the earth, waiting for the push it needed to awaken from its eternal sleep and burst out of the earth in a torrent of ice and fire. He felt fear and uneasiness grow within him like a snowfall during the wee hours of early winter mornings, falling slowly, spreading its icy fingers over him, wanting to eventually cover him up with no place to escape. The half-shadow half-moonlight made it even worse. Somehow it made the lifeless patch of gray-white seem kind of... alive. Darn it! She **had** to chose this place to rest, hadn't she!

Another groan from his hungry and now clearly angry stomach tore his mind from the mysticality of the glade and dumped him in the harsh realm of reality. He had to focus now on the doe, not the land as the latter would not satiate his hungry gut. He had to finish this as quickly as possible and leave this place. He had come so far, he won't give up now. He WILL finish the hunt. But after this business is over... he would never come back here. Ever.

He started moving along the rim of the clearing, his eyes fixed on the prize. He could not risk being out in the open or she would spot him and that would be it. Though female three horned elks don't have the huge appendages that make their male counterparts so formidable opponents, they make it up with their speed; she would outrun him easily, even with the limp. The trick now was to be cautious; very very cautious. The wind was still with him, good. His soft steps made no sound as he carefully approached his prey, one fifty paces...a hundred paces...seventy five paces...fifty paces... His nose twitched in apprehension of the upcoming feast. He crouched low, almost invisible amongst the snowbed, dark green eyes gleaming, his tail starting to twitch from side to side. He prepared to jump. And then it happened.

The roar was deafening, and the gust of wind that followed shamed even the strongest winds of the a thunderstorm. Such was its force, that even the unyielding goldencones, who stood proudly against the most terrible of the snowstorms, bowed down their heads in fear of the owner of the roar. The huge, pitch black shadow that accompanied the roar started circling around the glade, its owner roaring again, as if in delight. He covered the moons and the stars, not even noticing the three horned plump doe run away in fright, forgetting all about its bad leg, trying to get away from the terrible monstrosity as fast as possible; as well as the snowy white sabre-cat following it, either running in fright or chasing after his lost dinner due to the arrival of an unexpected third party as his guest of honour.

The shadow stopped circling around the glade as its owner started descending from his heavenly abode, his gigantic wings creating terrible gusts of winds. He stopped just above the treetops and stayed in that position for a few moments... as if preparing for something. The ragged stones circling the earthy patch suddenly started to glow bright red, like the coals in the forge of an orcish smithy, melting the snow gathered round them, revealing themselves as spurs on the top of little pillars of rocks packed in a circular manner, their craftsmanship very crude, like they were constructed; and they certainly were, in a very hasty way. On the outer surface of each rocky pillar was carved a symbol in some ancient, long forgotten language, which flared up as if response to the flaming spurs, in an attempt to quench their neverending thirst. The red glow of the spurs started to falter and fade. But another roar, this one filled with primordial power, extinguished the glowing symbols like the candles on a birthday cake of a fourteen year old Nord, eager to get it over with and count the gifts he got on his coming of age ceremony. The spurs started glowing again, this time madly, like miniature suns, filling up the glade with eerie red light, and then suddenly died without a warning, just like it started. There was a subtle movement, like a lid of a tomb had just been shifted slightly and there appeared deep cracks on the earth covering the central circle of the glade.

Then the shadow's owner spoke, his deep rumbling voice echoing through he whole forest, boasting of power rivaling even the gods, in a language long forgotten in the continent of Tamriel, considered lost in time, a myth, a legend...

"**ALOK, SHAQOAHNAAK"**


	2. Chapter 1 : the execution

_This is the second chapter of the novel The Tale Of The Dovahkiin. I've visibly modified some of the characters are sequence of some events.. so the people who want to remain true to the exact lore of the game, would find it a bit different from what they experienced. I would suggest reading this as a separate story, not a gameplay logbook. And as always, any sort of criticisms and reviews are very very welcome. Thank you for reading :) _

**THE TALE OF THE DOVAHKIIN**

**2. THE EXECUTION.**

"Damn it! I'm an utter fool." was the first thought he had when he was jolted back to his senses by the furious rocking of the cart.

He was at the wrong place at the wrong time; well to be precise, the right place at the wrong time.

Just about ten hours ago, he was happily selling junk at the Stormcloak camp near the Darkwater Crossing. During his long and arduous journey through various Imperial and Stormcloak camps in Skyrim; he had learned one thing. As a wise man once said, "War brings forth the utter fool lurking inside every man", people, especially people here in Skyrim tend to go absolutely blind during wartime. Show them a bauble crafted by a level first apprentice of the worst blacksmith of Riften, crafted as a failed project his master gave him to test his almost non-existent creativity; and almost without any effort, the hapless soldier would be convinced that he was holding the long lost dwemer artifact of _korslan_, accidentally found by members of an archaeological dig-site deep within the bowels of Bthardmz; which granted its wearer immunity against all magical attacks. The result? A sack full of septims for him, and a magical (almost; well the power to convince others was a magic itself, wasn't it?) bauble for the soldier who wouldn't even live long enough to mourn the loss of his whole life worth of savings as well as the bonus he received just yesterday. Ah! How he loved the gullibility of humans!

This time it was a bit difficult at first... mainly due to the fact that the particular detachment that earlier arrived at Darkwater Crossing camp was lead by none other than Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, True king of Skyrim, Bear of the North and all those other fancy name his followers liked to call him. To him however, Ulfric was just another fool with a bit higher ambition than just going to Sovngarde. But to give him his due, the bastard was no fool. He immediately became very suspicious of the lone Bosmer travelling merchant who had taken refuge at his war camp. It took A LOT of smooth talking on his part and some generous gifts to the future ruler of Skyrim (he was really glad that he had saved that ebony bow and those precious little arrows for so long; he had to give them away for free true, but what is more expensive than one's life?) to get his permission to continue his trade in the camp. After that, it was history... by the end of the second day at the camp he had enough septims to live in luxury for at least two years, without having to work for a single day. He was chuckling as he counted them; imagining the face of his friend Ri'saad when he would see his haul. That old cat was good at trading, but he had more experience in sweet-talking than the Khajit... and the proof of that was sure to set his whiskers on fire.

But as fate would have it, his bad luck came in the form of an Imperial platoon that attacked the camp at the dead of the night. He was about to go to bed after counting his earnings after a hard day of honest work when suddenly the room was filled with red-gold tunics of the Imperial army. He was sure he was about to be skewered when somebody said "Don't kill him, the sergeant wants prisoners, not dead people." the last thing he remembered before being knocked out was the heavy handle of the imperial waraxe descending upon him.

And now this.

A particularly nasty jolt of the cart sent him almost toppling over. He had to muster all his strength to keep himself steady and seated, though the slash of pain that seared his already travel-sore back made him realise the folly of his action in a not-so-polite manner. He groaned.

"Ah! So you're finally awake. I was thinking you would remain slumped like that the whole way of the journey." The voice that came from his front was gruff, like a troll's belching. He opened his eyes to take a look at this magnificent creature who did a thing that no one in Tamriel would ever think of doing; that is, stating the obvious.

The man was, well... the most Nordic looking man he saw in his entire life. A broad chin, blue eyes the colour of the autumn sky, long shoulder length mane of golden hair on a large, almost cubical head. His pale, quite handsome face (by Nordic standards), with a scruffy beard was marred by a swollen black eye and a thin scar on his cheek. The tattered blue-gold leather armour he wore was a mess... a gift from last night. He had seen this guy along with Ulfric Stormcloak when his retinue arrived. And by the look of him, he seemed like a formidable warrior; a valuable ally, and a problematic opponent.

"Well you see, the pleasantness of our ride can revive a dead mammoth... and I'm just a skinny little Bosmer."

"Shut up back there." A guard trotting alongside his cart promptly warned, with a menacing glare towards the Nord. The man didn't even flinch, but they both stopped talking. There was not much point in getting smacked on the head with the broad end of a waraxe or a mace by an Imperial guard clearly irritated by this long and boring journey.

He took this time to get a look at the surroundings.

The cart was moving on a typical Nordic road. He really hated these roads, a rock jutting out here, an ankle deep pothole there, and don't even think about the roads having uniform width; they were just like the residents of this snowy country; crude, unfinished, and ill-maintained. Only difference he could see was that the Nords smelled a million times worse. The road wound through a snow covered wood. The sheer number of Bristlecones and Fletcher's oaks gave him the impression that he was somewhere in the Falkreath Hold. It was early morning, and the bees were already at work on the blue and purple mountain flowers that survived yesterday's snowy onslaught. The pink-tailed Tillerbirds were chirping madly on the treetops, gaily announcing the end of autumn. He even saw a pair of mountain elk, who perked up their ears and ran at the sound of the approaching platoon. On any other day he would have sat down under a tree and marvel at the beauty sand serenity of the nature, even try to make friends with the little denizens of the forest; but today, he was searching for a safe route through the trees, weighing the odds on whether these tree trunks would give him enough cover form imperial arrows should he try to make a break for it. But to his dismay, the environment was not very favourable for little escapades, even if he could avoid being shot in the back, the cavalry would surely catch up to him and then... he shuddered.

Instead of trying to find a way to make an escape, he now focused his attention on his travelling companions. There were only four people on his prison cart; the hulking brute across him, a skinny looking lad sitting beside him, no soldier, that one; maybe a petty criminal unfortunate enough to make an acquaintance with an Imperial platoon; and OH! Lo and Behold! The one and only Ulfric Stormcloak, his hands tied and his mouth gagged, sitting right next to him! No wonder there were this many guards surrounding their carriage. They have finally captured the greatest threat to the mighty Imperial army, and therefore were very determined to make an example out of him. And that meant there was no hope for the unfortunate three who were travelling along with him.

The soldier who told them to shut up went to the front of the line to attend to some business; and he asked the Nord in a low voice, "Tell me, why are there only two carts? What happened to others?"

"They were taken to Solitude for their 'trial'. Of the fifty of us, twenty didn't make it through, and the rest were captured. Our carts consist of the high ranking officers of the retinue, headed straight for Helgen, where general Tullius is now residing. The thief was caught on the way, so he's in our cart; and as about you, you were dumped here simply because the other carts were full."

"Huh, more bad luck. Just what I need now." He thought.

"Damn you Stormcloaks! Skyrim was fine until you came along. The empire was lazy then; if they weren't following you, I would've stolen the horse and would be half-way to Hammerfell by now!" the thief pouted.

Everybody was silent for some time again. He could now see the steadily approaching towers of the Helgen keep. The gigantic granite monster, which stood as the bulwark of the Imperial army against the ever growing threat of stormcloak invasion from Whiterun Hold, was eagerly waiting for the arrival of the victorious Imperial platoon with her little band of prisoners.

Their next stop; and in all probability, their last.

"What about him? Why is he gagged?" The horse thief asked, breaking the silence.

"You should watch what you say, thief." The Nord answered, in a not-so-friendly tone. "You are in company of Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm."

"You... You're Ulfric Stormcloak; the leader of the rebellion? If they have captured you... by Shor, where are they taking us?" the fear in his voice was evident.

"Well, to Helgen, for starters; and not exactly to throw a party in our honour. Well, maybe they will, but it will be at the honour of our execution." He chimed in now, speaking in a perfectly cheerful and friendly manner.

"Oh no, no, no! Shor, Mara, Akatosh, Kynareth; Divines, help me!" The horse thief almost wailed now.

"As if they don't have their hands full already." He sighed.

That did absolutely nothing to up the thief's mood. He started wailing even louder, trying to persuade his captors that they had made a mistake, he was not with the rebels; they can't do this to him and so on. When one of the guards finally knocked him out, the other passengers almost sighed in relief.

"Where are you from, brother elf?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, we would be reaching our destination in about fifteen minutes now, and a Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

"Hmm, as you can see, I'm not a Nord... But since it won't cost me anything to tell you, I'm Elisvan Nightbrook from Silvenar, at your service."

"Ah! From the flower of Valenwood! Tell me; are the rumours of its rainbow crystals true?"

"Well, you have to see them to ascertain whether the rumours are true or not. The amber bridges and the blue flowers of the palace of Silvenar cannot be described in mortal words. But one thing I can assure you of, that is the silvery wine of the Prithala Hall. In comparison to that nectar... even the Surilie Brothers Vintage 399 tastes like horse piss."

"Ah now you pique my interest with that one! I think I will have some serious talks with the Gatekeeper of Sovngarde about carriage routes to the inn one of these days." The Nord chuckled.

"And what about you? You never visited my shop in Darkwater... so unlike many others of your company, I know almost nothing about you."

"The name's Ralof, Ralof Maularm from Riverwood; though for the most part I have lived here in Helgen."

"You're from Helgen?"

"Aye. My da was an Imperial Legionnaire, he was posted here when I was ten, and I came with him to become a legionnaire meself; leaving my ma and sis back in Riverwood. I used to be sweet on a lass here, you know... she was a serving wench in Vilod's tavern, the Hopping Hare. A real piece of work she was. Flirting with her and Vilod's mead with juniper berries mixed in it took most of my daytime hours with them. It's funny, you know; back then, the Imperial walls of the keep made me feel so safe." He smiled sadly. "Now, they only reek of betrayal. I do wonder what Hadvar is doing now..."

"The 10th and the 11th cohort of the Blue Legion, Soldiers of the great Emperor Titus Mede II, led by the Imperial Captain Caelia Cines, demands entry into the Keep of Helgen!" the voice of the Imperial herald boomed from somewhere in the front of the procession.

"So, finally we're here." Ralof observed as the gates swung open with a heartrending creak... a creak powerful enough to wake even the horse thief, who was sleeping like a baby after being knocked out by the guard.

As they entered the keep (it would be better to call it a fort; I was certainly much bigger than a 'keep'), and headed straight towards the headsman's block, they came across lines of Imperial legionnaires wearing the red-gold of the imperial army; with a blue primrose insignia on their chest piece that denoted them as the member of the Blue Legion. Oddly enough, there were Thalmor soldiers too... spellswords by the look of them, among the soldiers. Everyone was getting ready to attend the grand party.

"Would you believe that! The Thalmor are here too! Damn elves; I bet they had something to do with all this mess. I seriously hope they all rot in... Umm... sorry I didn't mean to offend you... you see..."

"Don't worry Ralof; I don't take offence to that. I have my reasons to hate them too." Elisvan replied with a dry smile. "But you should give them their due credit. They know every interesting thing that happens across Skyrim, and somehow, are always there when it happens."

"Aye. Rumour is; the Shadow Legion report directly to the head of the Thalmor Embassy, Elenwen. Even the Emperor's own family is not safe from the prying eyes of those long-chinned bastards; if you get what I mean."

The prison carts creaked to a stop at their designated positions just beside the headsman's block.

"Why are we stopping?" The horse thief still wasn't out of his paranoid stupor.

"What do you think? End of the line." was Ralof's curt response.

They got off the cart, making a line. Well, resisting in this particular situation; when there was at least fifty shortbows pointed at them, wasn't very healthy for oneself. The prisoners from the two carts were made to form two separate lines, which moved towards two Imperial sergeants holding lists; checking out the names of the individual prisoners.

"Those Imperials and their damned lists." Ralof growled under his breath as their line approached the appointed sergeant, a Nord standing beside an Imperial Captain. Strangely, the hulking brute looked quite harmless beside the Redguard woman. If anything, that woman sure had an air of command around her.

"When all of you are accounted for, you prisoners will follow the captain to the headsman's block. By General Tullius' orders, the execution shall take place immediately." The sergeant announced. To be honest, Elisvan thought it was better to get it over sooner than later; healers in Valenwood always advice against unnecessary tension.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." The name checking had begun.

"It has been an honour, Jarl Ulfric." Muttered Ralof, as the Bear of the North left the line to take his new position behind the captain of the guard. The man, who hadn't spoken a word, least of all a single sound through their entire gruesome journey here, moved casually; his head held high, like he wasn't in an Imperial stronghold, rather was taking an evening stroll after a bellyful of mead.

"Ralof of Riverwood." The sergeant called.

"Good to see you alive and kicking Hadvar; how's life?"

That was a moment of surprise for him; Ralof's matter-of-fact tone had taken him aback; so this brute is the 'Hadvar' that Ralof mentioned earlier. It seemed like they were childhood friends once. "Well, such is the irony of life; the best of friends always make the worst of enemies." He thought. He suddenly remembered Cassia's face and sighed under his breath.

Hadvar tried to ignore his one-time friend, and said, "At least I'm not headed for the blocks, so I guess it is good." as Ralof followed his lord and took his place behind the captain. The little moment of tension that clouded his face disappeared as he focused again on his list.

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

The horse thief; who, by Auri-El's immense grace, was silent until now, started his wailing again;"Please, it's a terrible mistake. You must understand; you have to! I'm not a rebel! Please don't kill me!" as all his pleas fell on deaf ears.

And then he did what even Ysgramor himself wouldn't even think of doing in his entire lifetime; he tried to make a break for it. But as you can expect, he was turned into a hedgehog of arrows before he even managed to run twenty paces. Fear makes people do unbelievable things!

"Anyone else feel like running?" Everyone unanimously voted against it. "Okay then. Continue with the proceedings."

"The last man there, you step forward."

"Who are you?"

Nice! So even the mighty Imperial army had people who weren't recorded on their list! This would be a blast.

"Elisvan Nightbrook; at your service my lord."

Hadvar ignored his mocking politeness and turned to his Captain. "What do we do with him Captain? The lad's not on the list."

"Forget the list, he goes to the block."

"I'm sorry prisoner, but we will make sure that your remains are sent back to Valenwood for proper cremation."

"Ah! Such kindness! I'm flattered." He said with a dazzling smile.

"Now all of you move towards the block; nice and easy."

The other party of prisoners had assembled in front of the blocks too as they approached; Ulfric at their head. The next five minutes passed as Tullius gave a heart-warming speech about their ultimate victory in this Civil War by capturing the murderers of the High King Torygg; how the true High King would never use the terrible power of the voice to murder his predecessor and usurp his throne, and how the empire was going to put the traitors down and restore the peace in Skyrim. After it was over, he commanded the priestess of Arkay to give the prisoners their last rites.

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upo..."

"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with!" a read-head Nord almost roared as he boldly made his way up the platform towards the block.

There was already a crowd of commoners gathering around the execution site. Elisvan could hear someone promptly send his son home; clearly not intent on sharing this joyous bloody moment with the lad. When the headsman put the black cloth over the red-head's head, they roared in anticipation. Someone even roared "JUSTICE!" the Stormcloak soldier's last words before the headsman brought his axe down were, "My ancestors are smiling down upon me from Sovngarde Imperials; can you say the same?"

These people and their stupid beliefs. He sighed again.

"As fearless in death; as he was in life." Ralof's voice had the edge of finality, boding farewell to his departed comrade.

"Next; the wood-elf!"

"Wow! He was the second one! Maybe they thought to clear out the junk first and save the finest pieces for the last. But oh, how he hated men who called him Wood-Elf! Their race had a perfectly nice sounding name goddamit!" he thought, as he made his way to the block.

But just as he was about to ascend the stairs to the platform, he heard a sound. They all heard it. It was like the boom of thunder, only it sounded a bit like a roar, and the sky was absolutely clear. Everything stopped for a moment, and the sentries were asked if they could ascertain the source of the sound. But they answered negative, and General Tullius gave the verdict, "It's nothing; carry on captain."

"Yes General Tullius Sir! Put the cloth over his head!" and it was picked up from where it was left.

People say, when you are about to die, your whole life flashes by in front of your eyes. That's a bogus thought; as Elisvan could clearly see. The only thing he could see was the black cloth covering his head; the only thing that he could hear was the gleeful cheering of the crowd and Ralof's "Farewell, brother elf." And the only thing he could feel was the touch of the Imperial Captain as she forced him to kneel, and her boots that made it so that his neck was on the block; ready for the headsman's axe. He waited for the sound of the axe swooping down. That's when he heard it again. The roar; it was definitely a roar, only that this time, it was much, much closer.

The axe never came down on his neck. The pressure of the Captain's boots on his back was suddenly gone. Everyone started screaming at once. He moved away from the block, tried to stand up, but was immediately knocked down by someone running into him. It was instant pandemonium. As he tried to get on his feet again, he tried to get a grasp of the situation. He could not see, and his hands were bound; so he relied on his sense of hearing.

"Hurry, get inside!" there was the voice of the Captain.

"It's in the clouds!"

"Run, Jarl Ulfric!" Ralof roared.

"Sentries, guards, to arms!"

"Hurry General, get to cover!"

"What in Oblivion is THAT!" he clearly recognised the voice of the mighty General Tullius. Only now, his voice was filled with what seemed to be primal fear.

He tried to run, but fell. He started scrambling to stand upright again; reasoning that whatever it was that made the Imperial general and the hardened Nord cower in fear like that was not going to welcome him with open arms and share a mug of ale with him.

There was that roar again. It was deafening, and it sounded like something that flew; judging from the flapping of something that sounded like huge wings. He seriously wondered what it was, as he had never seen or heard of something which had such huge wings like that. Judging by the sound, its owner had to be triple the size of a normal two storey house.

And then, suddenly, he froze in his spot in disbelief; bewildered and amazed; his heart almost stopping, his blood turning to ice; as he heard somebody run past him screaming fanatically,

"RUN! IT'S A DRAGON!"

The last thing he heard before he was knocked clear off his feet was "**FUS**"


	3. Chapter 2 : The escape : Part 1

**Author's note: This one's a bit short, but after consulting with myself for the last part of the week I've planned to make the upcoming chapters the same length as this one. This way, I'll be able to update faster, and the bulk of the story won't grow on me :p. As always, thank you for reading, your reviews are always welcome! As are your ideas on the turns the story could take! :)**

* * *

**THE DOVAHKIIN TALES**

**THE ESCAPE: PART I**

"Hey wood-elf; are you alright? Hurry, get up quickly! The gods won't give us another chance!" Elisvan Nightbrook, the lone Bosmer traveling merchant turned hapless pilgrim to the executioner's block in Helgen groaned in pain as two large, strong hands tore the face-mask off his head and helped him up. Everything around him was hazy and spinning like a top. He was still light-headed from the battering ram of a hit he took to his chest that sent him flying just a moment ago, and every part of his poor, lean body was hurting like a sweet little trip to Oblivion. His out-of-commission hearing was coming back, bringing with itself the constant screaming, shouting, and more screaming all around him. Ah! What a lovely music it was for his travel-sore organs! He earnestly hoped he was deaf.

"Tha… Thank you Ralof… hey!"

His smart comments to Nord who took him by the scruff of his neck and aggravated his injuries died at the back of his throat as he watched in absolute horror as a flaming rock fell from the sky and buried deep into the earth just about ten paces in front of the two men. The debris from the impact scarred the gravel where he just stood in a deathly shade of black. He suddenly wanted to hug the brute rather than curse him.

Scared, he looked up to the sky and realized immediately why the surroundings looked so off-colored. There was absolutely no trace of the beautiful clear morning from when their party had marched through the gates of the keep. Instead, swirling red clouds covered the whole sky, meeting where purple lightning crackled in the amber colored chasm that marked the epicenter of this unearthly storm. There were no thunderclaps, instead, from the red clouds fell scores of flaming meteors, like the one they had just acquainted themselves with, raining down on the screaming people running hither and thither; utterly hopeless against this terrible, unbeatable menace. But the likely cause of the catastrophe, the Dragon itself was nowhere to be seen.

"Stop gawking at the sky like a fool and follow me mate… or do you want to die?" Ralof's familiar gruff shout shook him out of his fearful stupor. As Elisvan started running after the Nord his thoughts were clear and his mind was racing like a war-horse… he had only one objective now: to get out of this mess alive.

They ran like frightened hares chased by a hungry wolf through the thick, choking smoke and the falling debris. Here and there soldiers were running along the flame scorched road; screaming and shouting at the top of their lungs, superiors gave out orders; platoon members looked for their missing comrades; the injured cried out for healers. None of the buildings were in one piece... They could hear the crackling sounds of thunderbolts and booms of fireballs at a distance as the magicians of the keep and the Thalmor contingent fired spell after spell at the invisible enemy. It was utter chaos everywhere. But they ignored all of it and never stopped.

After what seemed to Elisvan as an endless hour of sprinting like a madman, Ralof led him to a watchtower; its double doors slightly ajar and none other than Ulfric Stormcloak standing guard, a gleaming sword in hand and a worried look on his face. They entered hurriedly as the Jarl of Windhelm proceeded to close the door behind them.

Tired and relieved, Elisvan slumped down beside the door; panting heavily.

The edifice, made of huge stone blocks stacked on each other to create a cylindrical watchtower-cum-garrison was bustling with the escapees from the executioner's block. The weapon's rack were empty, its contents hanging from the belts of the tower's new occupants. Two of them sat on the huge stone stairs that spiralled up to the top; breaking their continuity just once for a 'shelf' of stone that jutted out from the middle of the spiral building, a refuge for the reserve archers when skirmishes went on the mottled stone floor downstairs. Three people systematically checked every nook and cranny of the tower, searching for supplies, and if lady luck smiled upon them in her immense grace, an Imperial soldier. A woman, one of the two in the little group of soldiers was lying on her side on the floor not very far from where he sat, apparently injured. A bald man with a shock of braided red flowing down his face knelt beside her; an anxious look on his face.

"Ralof, we were waiting for you. I thought that you had become the Dragon-fodder when you ran off to save your… friend."

"We were very lucky, Jarl Ulfric." Ralof was panting too, but not as heavily as him. "But if I may, was that… thing really a Dragon? Could the legends really be true?"

"My good man, legends don't burn down villages. And that is one of the main reasons we can't delay here anymore. As soon as Bifur has treated Sigrun, we leave this place. Take a break until then; and Vilas, you help the Bosmer, he's no good to anyone wearing rags and with his hands bound, not even to himself."

_Finally, someone who talks sense around here._ Elisvan thought as a grim looking Nord cut the cords binding his hands and handed him the equipments of the dead Imperial soldier who lay nearby; his neck broken. Elisvan felt a tinge of pity for the poor lad, for he was a boy; no more than eighteen years of age, dead by the cruel machinations of fate before he had even seen the world. But he quickly put those thoughts aside as he started donning the armour; the lad was dead and he had to stay alive, that was all that mattered; that is how the world works.

As he slung the steel waraxe onto his belt he heard a painful groan, and turned around to see what had happened.

The source of the sound was the Nord woman, who lay motionless on her back now, clutching a piece of rag to her stomach. He noticed what he failed to see before due to her facing the other way... the cloth was sopping with blood.

"What happened?" He asked the bald man as he approached them.

"Sigrun here took a hit from one of the rocks falling from the skies. The flesh on the right side of her abdomen was blasted right off. The wound is too deep; doesn't even try to close even after being treated with two vials of healing potion. I did what I can, but I don't think there is any hope in trying further; she's on her way to Sovngarde." The man shook his head sorrowfully, his huge red braided beard swinging in a melancholy way.

"Not yet she is not. Here, let me have a look at the wound."

"You? What would you…"

"I know healing magic… happy? Now, if you would step aside please."

"A wood-elf knowing magic? And healing magic to boot? Look here lad, whatever you're trying to do…"

"Stop arguing and make way for him Bifur." Ulfric Stormcloak and his followers had gathered round now, having heard the little conversation following the groan. "We do not have time now, and we need every bit of help we can. I won't give up on one of my lieutenants so easily. You've tried your best; let him have a go at it now. If the lad fails however, we move on without any further delay. And don't worry about him being up to something, we all know how the Heal Other spell works, don't we?"

Hearing his Jarl's orders, Bifur immediately, albeit forcedly made way and went over to stand with his other comrades with his arms crossed; his grey eyes drawn to a slit and his flaming red beard puffed up with the skepticism that clouded from his face.

In front of the six anxious onlookers, Elisvan knelt beside the dying woman named Sigrun and gently removed the now blood-soaked rag.

The huge gash that covered most of the upper right quadrant of her abdomen almost had her guts spilled out. The blood loss was staggering, and the way it looked he suspected the damage extended to her liver. She was barely alive, probably because of the healing potions. But her was strength was failing at a rapid pace, her pale face looked more ashen with each passing second. The mossy green eyes were gradually losing their luster; the big lips were blackened. At the moment she didn't look like a strong Nord woman who would lop off the head of an Imperial soldier without a hitch, rather more like a sick little girl waiting anxiously for her ma to prepare the healing broth.

As he remembered the lessons from his youth and started channeling magicka in an attempt to work the spell, everything around him started to fade away. He could not see the visages of the men around him, could not hear the unending shrieks and shouts outside; even the wounded woman left, leaving him kneeling in a room of impenetrable darkness with his hands sprawled out; his only companion being what seemed to be a little orb of light. A tiny point of blue it was at first; then it started growing, both in brightness and size; all the while soaking up his reserve of magicka.

He knew how it looked like from the outside, golden yellow aura surrounding the palms of the healer, sending tendrils of light into the injured person's body, healing the wound from inside. He knew, as he had been the observer countless times in the past.

The dot of light grew into a sun of azure fire, exterminating the last of the darkness in the room, and with it, the tug at his magicka reserve weakened. Elisvan finally let go of the spell, and as his senses returned to him in a torrent of ice and fire, he looked upon his handiwork.

There, in front of him sat the Stormcloak warrior named Sigrun, looking in utter amazement at the wire-thin scar that streaked across her abdomen; reminder of the terrible wound that threatened her life just a moment ago.

"Thank… thank you kind sir… how can I…" her voice was heavy with gratitude. She could not still believe she was alive after all that.

"You can repay him by staying alive, Sigrun. Now you have been patched up we will move out immediately; we don't have a single second to waste. How do you feel? Can you move?"

"I feel as good as new, my Jarl. And you my friend?"

"Does anybody have a magicka potion? That little endeavor almost exhausted me."

As he chugged down the little vial of blue liquid that he was given, he heard Ulfric start giving orders to his men… the old Nordic way. "Good. Now listen up lads, we split into two separate groups. Bifur, help Sigrun get dressed and follow me as soon as you're done. Vigran, Sigmund, you're also with me. We will go to through the west gate. As for the others, Vilas, you're in charge. Take Hilde and Gunjar and escape through the east side through the keep. Ralof, as soon as we leave bolt the door from the inside. That would give them quite a hard time, if they choose to look for us. After that, take the emergency ladder down, and join up with Vilas inside the keep. And as for you…"

"I'll go with Ralof."

"As you wish. Okay lads, off we go. We will escape while those damned Imperials are busy with that overgrown lizard. Move fast, kill faster. And by Ysmir's beard; stay alive. For the Rebellion!"

"For Skyrim!" they shouted as one, and moved out in their teams through the gate, into the pandemonium that was once the town of Helgen; leaving the two of them standing inside the keep.

As soon as the last of the warriors had moved out, Ralof promptly closed the door; placed the huge door bar to secure it, and turned to face him.

"Let's move up lad!" He called as he started moving up those immense stone stairs.

"Coming." Elisvan called back as he followed suit.

But their bad luck was only beginning.

As soon as they had climbed the first flight of stairs they felt the building shudder uncontrollably.

"To the walls! Now!" Ralof shouted, but Elisvan needed no instruction. As they plastered themselves to the stone walls of the Imperial watchtower, a part of the wall just in front of them collapsed upon itself as a huge maw, as black as a new-moon night burst through, scattering stone blocks and debris in every direction. The huge stone blocks of the tower, broken like decayed wooden planks, covered the whole of the stone shelf, completely blocking their way up. It paused for just a moment; and Elisvan, who came to know much later that he wasn't hallucinating, heard it '**speak**'.

"**YOL… TOR SHUL!**"

A blue stream of flame came in a torrent from between the terrible jaws of the black beast and bathed the stone and rubble in front of them in a blue halo, half-melting it. The waves of heat that struck the two men were unbearable, and it took all his strength to not start screaming at the top of his lungs.

The jet stream of inferno stopped quite suddenly, leaving in its wake red hot molten stone and two men with their hearts to their throat. The Dragon lingered there for a bit more, as if admiring its handiwork. The two sets of immense teeth, each one as large as a grown man's arm glistened, as if in glee, and the pink tongue covered in scarlet barbs writhed like a snake, in anticipation of its upcoming meal of roasted human flesh. But there was none, and the pungent smoke probably covered their scents; for it grunted, almost disappointed.

Elisvan was visibly relieved when the black maw disappeared from their front and they heard the flaps of huge wings outside, that signaled their visitor was flying away. Beside him Ralof let out a huge sigh.

"Shor's bones! We were saved!"

"Well, not really. As you can see, the way up is closed off due that bit of redecoration our winged visitor did there. Therefore escaping through the emergency ladder goes out through the window. Our only way out now is through that door below.

"Going down? Not an option mate. The Dragon appeared here, and if I know the damned Imperials, those bastards will come running here like a bear to the beehive. We go down through that door; we become targets just ripe for the picking." Ralof was looking outside through the hole as he spoke.

"Going out through the window, eh!" He mused to himself and beckoned Elisvan to him.

"I have an idea mate! See that building over there? It used to be Vilod's inn. We can escape by jumping into it."

Elisvan peeked out to look at the building Ralof was talking about. There, twenty paces in front of them stood a two storey house with a thatched roof, built in the fashion of any other inn he came across in the province of Skyrim. Except most of the roof was gone now, and the inside of the first floor was burning.

"Have you gone absolutely mad Ralof? What do you mean, 'jumping into it'? Jumping into a burning building? And from this height? You want to kill the both of us?"

"You are a wood-elf for divine's sake! How can you be afraid of heights?"

"Well not all of us fall in the oh-so-lean-tree-dwelling stereotype, Nord, and you would be well off to mind it from now." Elisvan felt his voice rising. "By the pea-brain of Malacath! What was I thinking?" He screamed at the top of his lungs. "Let's go back down Ralof, there is still some time before the bastards reach here, we can make it! We -"

Ralof took him by his shoulder and shook him so hard that he almost bit his tongue, after the Nord accomplished his objective to shut Elisvan up, he said to him in a calm, confident voice, "Brother Elf, I've done my part by saving you from the headsman's block, and you've repaid us in kind by saving Sigrun's life. Now it is up to you how you choose to do things. If you want, you can go down the stairs; maybe you can slip by before they storm this place. But me, I am not going out of the tower looking like a blue-gold beacon. I have made my choice, and Talos be damned I'm not sticking around here for you to make yours. We part ways here friend; it was nice meeting you." With this, the golden-maned Nord jumped right through the gaping hole and straight into the black smoke of the burning inn, leaving him standing on top of the first flight of the stone stairs of the watchtower; utterly dumbfounded.


	4. Chapter 3 : the escape : Part 2

THE DOVAHKIIN TALES

THE ESCAPE: PART II

"What the… Hey! Wait for me!" Elisvan called after Ralof. But the thick smoke barred his vision of the inn, and if there was any response, it was drowned in the din of the pandemonium.

_Shit._ He took another look around. The burning inn seemed too far way, the fall seemed too steep, the smoke seemed too black, and the height seemed too much for him. His head started spinning as he looked at the ground below. He felt his heart beat faster, as a familiar feeling beset upon him. _The dreaded feeling of vertigo; the vertigo he felt when he tried to perform tree-hopping, as his people called jumping from a branch of a tree to another, without any sort of support, for the first time in his life. He suddenly felt those faces looking at him from the ground below; faces filled with disbelief as he failed to perform what came naturally for the Bosmeri people; faces filled with disappointment as he tarnished the name of his family, and disgraced the entire race of the Bosmer. And he remembered the face of Cassia, looking at him, tears in her eyes._

"The door's closed from the insides sergeant." The booming voice outside the watchtower shook him out of his daydream. The lad was right, those Imperial bastards have come.

"Take the emergency ladder up, and unlock it for Kynareth's sake!"

"At once, sergeant!"

_Tch._ Elisvan thought to himself as he took a few steps back and prepared for the jump. "The world has gone mad, very, very mad." He murmured to himself as he ran up to the edge of the massive hole-in-the-wall and launched himself into the air, heading straight for the column of smoke emanating from the first floor of the inn.

The impact winded him as he landed feet-first. But before he could open his eyes and regain balance, the burnt wooden planks of the floor gave away from under his feet, and he began to fall through the roof to the floor below.

Two hands, the same hands that have saved him multiple times throughout the day suddenly grabbed his arms and held him firmly.

"See, I knew you would make it." Ralof grinned as he helped Elisvan up.

"Why the hell did you go and jump ahead like that? Shor's bones I thought I was going to hit the bucket on that one!"

"A wise man once said, 'A Man can accomplish anything when he's afraid, my friend.'"

"That's the first time I've heard anyone say it."

"Well, because I am the wise man."Ralof winked at him as his smile grew broader. "So, shall we move on then?"

_Show-off._ Elisvan thought as he started running after the Nord as they took the stairs down.

* * *

The sprint to the keep was a very short and uneventful one. After they left the remains of the Hopping Hare behind them, they mostly kept to the walls, avoiding people, and of course, the Dragon, who was busy with systematically slaughtering the archers on top of the turrets and the walls to take notice of two puny men running on the ground. Only once did they meet an Imperial soldier, but fortunately the lad was so preoccupied with stopping his guts spilling out of his ripped open abdomen with his burnt-to-a-crisp right hand that he didn't even try to stop them as they ran past.

"We're almost there. That door there leads to the East side of the keep." Ralof shouted to him as they headed towards the wooden door that led to the bowels of the actual 'keep'.

But before they could enter, another distraction presented itself in the form of Hadvar, Ralof's childhood friend turned sworn enemy.

"Ralof, you damned traitor! Out of my way!" Hadvar growled as the two parties froze as they faced each other. A naked sword in his hand.

"Not happening." Ralof readied his waraxe. "You're not stopping us this time, Hadvar. I'm escaping this shithole, and though I'm not keen on fighting you, I'll happily chop your head off if you even try something funny."

"We'll see about that. Let's get it over with, you mangy boot-licking piece of Stormcloak filth!" Hadvar roared as he charged towards them, sword held high.

_Damn them Nords and their pea-sized brains!_ Elisvan cursed to himself. _Here a Dragon is making a mess of this place and they__'re__fighting like two little children! Idiots, all of them!_ He had to jump back as Ralof dodged a particularly vicious swing to the head, and responded in kind. He drew his own weapon, intending to help.

"Don't interfere, elf!" Ralof growled. "This stays between us." He swung his axe, but Hadvar promptly blocked it with his sword.

"Aargh! Whatever you do, can you finish it quickly? I don't want to become a morning snack for that scaly salamander!"

"With pleasure." Ralof almost smiled as he trapped his one-time friend's sword with his axe and yanked hard, disarming him. The move caused Hadvar to stagger, and Ralof brought his axe down, severing the head of the Imperial sergeant.

"See you later in Sovngarde, friend. May Talos guide you in your safe journey to Shor's Halls." Ralof whispered solemnly as he took the sword lying on the now bloody ground and stuck it hilt-up beside his former friend's body. Then he beckoned Elisvan as he took the door to the keep.

_Stupid customs._ Elisvan thought as he followed the brute.

* * *

The first thing Elisvan noticed about the huge room was the massive head of the mountain elk mounted on the wall, its immense antlers looking like the spread-out branches of a graht-oak. And the second was the heap of bloody mess lying in the far end of the room. The faint blue-gold indicated that belonged to a Stormcloak soldier, though he couldn't figure out which one as his head and an arm lay a bit further away. A few paces away lay the mangled bodies of two red-golds of the Imperial Army.

"Oh no." was Ralof's curt response to the scene as he ran towards his dead comrade. He flipped over the decapitated body and recoiled in shock… rage welling up in his eyes.

"Gunjar… damn those Imperials, I'm gonna rip the hearts out of every single one of those bastards!" he growled in a low, dangerous voice.

It was a tad bit amusing. _This is the face of the man who just killed his one-time childhood friend without even batting an eye._ Elisvan mused to himself as the Nord gave the last rites to his Stormcloak brother; until they were alerted by the footsteps echoing on the stone floor in the distance. The sound of armoured boots approaching, the steps sounded like those of someone who commanded authority.

"Hey Ralof! Quick! It's the Imperials!" he called to the kneeling brute, who immediately left Gunjar's side and accompanied him as they plastered themselves to the wall on the sides of the door their visitors were coming through.

"… Don't worry soldiers; we will make out of it alive and warn the others, the other lads here should be ready…" The armour-clad guard captain, the Redguard woman he had seen early in the morning passed through them, never noticing the two men. She suddenly stopped in her tracks and gasped,

"Onsi have mercy on us! What happene-"she fell forward wheezing, her head almost severed from her body by the well aimed blow at the back of her neck. It was so sudden that the two soldiers following her froze, giving Ralof ample time to free his axe and hit one of them at the side of his neck. The sharpened waraxe went right through the flimsy leather armour the lad wore… and his head separated from his body with a sudden spurt of blood.

In the brief moment that he was blinded, the second one had recovered, and charged towards him, with his two naked swords. He ducked and blocked and ducked again… the lad was not a greenhorn per se, and the two weapons only gave him an advantage. Ralof was gradually being pushed back by his vicious onslaught.

"A little help here?" he called out to Elisvan, who stood with his arms crossed, thoroughly enjoying the somewhat amusing scene of the brute on the back foot. It was like a skeever was fighting with a sabre-cat, and winning. He had to admit, the midget was good with his Imperial shortswords.

"I thought you don't want any 'help' from me!" Elisvan called back.

"That was then! This is now! And we… "He blocked the right sword. "Will…" He attacked but was quickly parried. "Lose…" Ralof dodged the stab aimed at his neck. "Time…" The rest of his words were cut off as he parried a blow to his side, but failed to counter the full brunt of it, and the sword produced a deep gash on his thigh.

_Well, that is certainly true._ Elisvan thought as he quickly moved behind the soldier, who anticipating the incoming danger, struck a hard blow that staggered Ralof, and spun to face him.

But what he got was not a blow from a gleaming sword… but a little burst of flames to his face, thrown at him from a distance obviously out of his reach.

As the lad dropped his swords and started screaming, Ralof stood up, limped towards the Imperial, and with a little 'Yeargh!' brought the axe down, splitting his skull.

* * *

"You're very… different from other wood-… Bosmers I've met in my life, you know." Ralof told him as he checked his newly healed leg-wound as Elisvan searched the corpses for the keys to the metal grille that barred their escape route. The Stormcloaks had locked it behind them to deter any pursuers, and thus the two previous corpses, the gate guards didn't have any keys on them. But luckily for them, the guard captain had a spare one slung her belt.

"Different as in?" he asked.

"I've never seen a Bosmer who uses destruction magick; and that afraid-of-heights thing? It was so…" he fumbled for the right word. "… Surprising. And also, I've never seen any Bosmer with red eyes."

_Red- Oh shit!_ Somehow the magic that altered his eye colour to make it light green was gone. Elisvan panicked for a brief moment, but quickly controlled himself and said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, "Well, as I said before, not all of us follow the stereotype. I don't follow the meat mandate to the word; I hate killing animals and popping out babies like a rabbit; yes I'm terribly afraid of heights without any sort of support; yes I have red eyes which have only appeared twice before in the Bosmeri society, and are considered the eyes of ultimate evil and bad luck; and yes, though I do prefer the bow, I know magic, which I… picked up on the road."

"You're lying, aren't you?"

"Am I?" Elisvan questioned back as he unlocked the grille. "Let's move on, we have no time to lose."

Ralof led him through mostly deserted paths, through obscure rooms and little halls. The soldiers they met were all dead bodies… the two survivors were very thorough. As they descended down a massive flight of stairs, Ralof whispered conspiratorially,

"These stairs lead down to the torture room in the basement. From there we take the left door to the emergency exit. The two guys will probably wait for us there."

"Hmm."

And sure enough, they were waiting for them. Vilas was fiddling with the lock of a cage that contained a long-dead mage inside it, and Hilde was cleaning the bloodied head of her warhammer, something she must have picked up during her short trek down. The two bodies of the Imperial torturer and his assistant lay nearby.

"There they-"

"Shh!" Ralof's boom was cut short by the irritated woman. "There are Imperials down the hall. You want to alert them?" she rasped at them.

"Oh, sorry… I couldn't control myself." Ralof whispered back.

"Imperials? How many?"

" Preparing for escape, eight of them at least." Hilde replied.

Ralof paused for a moment, and spoke, "I saw Gunjar upstairs. He…"

"Don't worry Ralof; he died a warrior's death. He's probably sitting in Shor's Halls now, gorging himself on roasted ox while we exhaust ourselves in this bloody mess!" Vilas had stopped trying to break open the lock, and though he said this with a smile on his face… his eyes betrayed his grief, as did Hilde's. Elisvan suspected that if Gunjar hadn't died, some of the Imperials they met on their way would have been spared.

"So, anyone knows which way we go now?" he voiced his thoughts.

"We have no other way than this one. It's the only way out from here. With the three of us we can take on those milk-sops pretty well, but our main problem is the archers." Vilas answered thoughtfully.

"Archers? How many?"

"Three of them."

"Hmm… maybe I could do something about it. Someone help me scout the situation out, will you?"

"I'll go; I'm the scout of our group." Vilas said. "Ralof, Hilde… stay here and watch our backs."

"Aye Captain." Ralof replied as the two of them sneaked into the hallway.

The Imperials were busy packing up. The room, though it was more of a small cave than a large 'room' had two stone walkways facing each other, connected by a stone bridge. An underground stream flowed below. Three archers patrolled on the far walkway, as the two soldiers were busy hauling a cart containing a massive pile of books and documents through the stone bridge. The remaining three were standing guard. One of them wore an insignia of a sergeant.

"Where is the guard Captain? She should've been here ages ago." He sighed. "Someone wants to go back and check?"

"Check? On her?" another of the guard, a short, stocky Imperial lad replied. "Come on. She can handle anything. She will come when she wants to. Maybe she's busy with some other work on the way down. I'm more worried about the damned torturer. That guy is taking too long."

_I don't think they will be coming._ Elisvan thought to himself as he scanned the room, when he noticed the puddle of glistening oil below the patrolling archer's feet. The torturer had put a trap for the unwanted visitors or escapees who tried to take the way out. The lever that released the oil lamps could not be seen however, maybe it was a hidden mechanism concealed somewhere out here. But nevertheless, an idea formed in the back of his mind.

"Okay so listen up people, here's the plan." Elisvan started explaining while the three eager faces stared at him. "We move in very, very quietly. I will take care of the archers and create a diversion. You people move in, and clear out the path. But remember, no one attacks before I create the diversion. Clear?"

"Well, apparently yeah, but how exactly will you take care of the archers? Vilas was visibly curious.

"With a bow." Elisvan smiled as he readied himself.

"A bow? But there's no bow on you or anywhere here, except on the back of those archers… is there?"

"Well, I did tell you that I know magic, didn't I?" Elisvan released the prepared spell, as a spectral bow materialized in front of him out of thin air, bathed in violet, heatless flames. A quiver filled with barbed arrows appeared on his back, made of that same material, something that is not even found in Nirn… but is abundant in the planes of Oblivion.

"You… you know how to summon weapons?" Hilde almost exclaimed loudly. All three pairs of eyes looked at him in barely concealed amazement.

"Well, a man has to protect himself… doesn't he? Now then, shall we? I can't keep it up for very long, you know. And resummoning would be a pain." Elisvan smiled again as he started sneaking forward through the hallway, followed by three warriors who now looked at him very differently than just moments ago. A look of a little respect, mixed with a little fear.

The skirmish was a swift one. They didn't even notice the ethereal arrow strike the lose hook that attached the lamps, and when the little bombs exploded in their faces and the archers started wailing, the other soldiers were so startled that they forgot to unsheathe their weapons when the three Nords entered the fray, shouting war cries and bashing skulls in here and there. Elisvan shot only once more, to finish off the lone archer who had somehow managed to stand up and grab his bow.

The group of four entered the tunnel, Ralof at their head. It led them into a natural cave, complete with glowing mushrooms and a little underground river, no doubt the continuation of that little stream they saw earlier. There was a path along the river though, indicated by the magical braziers which provided light in this eternally dark cave. In their magical light the path seemed to be unused, for a long, long time.

"We follow the water to the exit. With the Imperials dead back there, it should be deserted, but watch your back. This is a natural cave that people don't generally come down, and the last time I came this way, I saw a troll living down here." Ralof warned.

"A troll? Lovely." Elisvan remarked.

But luckily for them, the way out was deserted. They saw some old bones; humans and animals, their marrow sucked out. But whoever, or whatever called this place home had abandoned it ages ago, and the only things that greeted them were a group of frostbite spiders that were quickly dispatched by the trio of overeager Nords.

They took a little break near the mouth of the cave. Vilas and Hilde sat nearby on the rocks, their backs toward him; talking loudly among themselves; offering thanks to the Divines and of course, Talos, for guiding them through this safely. Ralof, after checking the path back for any signs of potential pursuers; walked up to him, his face beaming with joy of the upcoming freedom.

"Nobody's following us, though I laid some traps just to be sure." He said. "That was a tough journey, wasn't it lad? Thank Talos we got out of there safe and sound."

"Aye; that we certainly did. Though I feel a bit sad for Gunjar."

"Don't worry friend, as Vilas said, he fell in battle, and is on his way to Sovngarde."

"So what do we do now?"

"From here we take the road to Riverwood. Shouldn't take longer than two days on foot. There lives my sister, Gerdur; she's sort of… the head of the village. She'll take care of us. After that we all go to Windhelm. The Jarl will be so happy to see you; you may even gain the rank of a commander! The bards of all the Nine Holds will sing the name of us four… either in praise, or in fear."

"Ah I see. But I think we should go separately. This place will be crawling with Imperials by tomorrow; and a group of four will be very easy to find."

"Well, that is true." Ralof pondered for a moment. Then suddenly, his face brightened up as he removed the silver ring resting on his left hand. "Here, take my ring." He said. "Gerdur knows our faces, but she doesn't know you. Give it to her and tell her this, 'The Winds are cold, but the Furs stay warm.' And she'll know that you're my friend. I'll go tell Vilas and Hilde our plans. Meet you at Windhelm later, friend. For Skyrim!"

Elisvan smiled as Ralof turned his back. _To be utterly honest with you, it would be very troublesome if my combat style and especially my eyes were known in all nine Holds of Skyrim._ _You're a kind and good guy, Ralof, and I'm really glad for your help. But the problem with you and your friends is that you people will talk too much. And that, my friend... isn't permissible._ His red irises glittered as the ethereal bow materialized in his hand without a sound. _And for the record, I like to stay on my own side._He thought, wondering if he still remembered his training days with the Jaqspurs.

**Author's note: Jaqspur: long distance shooters of the Bosmers. Said to be the best of the best.**


	5. Chapter 4 : RIVERWOOD : Part 1

**RIVERWOOD**

**PART: I**

* * *

_"There once was a hero named Ragnar the Red_

_Who came riding to Whiterun from ole Rorikstead-"_

"-I saw a Dragon!"

"Dragons, now, is it? Please, mother. If you keep on like this everyone in town will think you're crazy. And I've got better things to do than listen to more of your fantasies."

"You'll see! It was a dragon! It'll kill us all and the-"

_Gods be damned! If that old hag would ever shut up!_ Faendal stopped humming as he brought down his axe in a mighty heave, splitting the block of wood into two. His calm and quiet workday was totally ruined.

Stopping his work for the moment, he looked in the direction of the little house just near the South entrance of the village; his face contorted with anger and loathing for both that hagraven of a woman and her buffoon of a son. Oh! How he hated that particular family! That senile bag of bones and her equally funny-in-the-head failed bard of a son made the lives of everybody, including his… no, especially his life absolutely unbearable. And worst of all, what do the townspeople do about it? Why, Absolutely nothing! _"She can be hard at times, but you know, she's so sick. When she was younger…"_ every single one of the whole town starts telling the same damn thing whenever there is any complaint. It has gone for so long, even the village troublemaker Frodnar had given up.

And then there was her useless son, Sven. That disgrace to the Nord race failed the bard's college final exams twice, and then came back to live a life leeching off his mother. Well, Faendal really didn't care about what Sven did, except when he played the poor-guy-scraping-by-taking-care-of-his-sick-mother part and garnered absolutely undue sympathy from the people around him. He did nothing productive, except maybe sing the same old songs in his donkey-voice; and still, the extra cabbage of Gerdur's farm, the spare firewood from Hod's mill, even that miser whoreson Embry shares his mead with that bastard! Come, on now; really? But the worst of all, he made a move towards Camilla. And THAT was unforgivable.

_Camilla; sweet, sweet Camilla!_ His mood always brightened whenever Faendal thought about her. _She was beautiful as the spring morning; delicate as the first snowflakes; her voice made the greatest bards seem like they were speaking in__the__language of trolls. And there was her smile… Oh! How beautiful was her smile! A smile that could lighten up the darkest of rooms… a smile that made the harshest of winter nights feel like a stroll in the summer evening… a smile that could entrance all, man and mer alike!_ And that ethereal smile was reserved for him, only him… except for now. How dare he! How dare that bastard make a move towards HIS woman? Faendal gritted his teeth, like he had been doing for the past several days whenever he saw the two of them together. Oh, he WOULD show that bastard… he would make sure that Stormcloak-loving bastard is sent on his way to Oblivion… he would take her back from the clutches of that whoreson…. That blood-sucker… he would-… he gripped his axe harder as he raised it high above his head, ready to take out his unbridled anger on that harmless piece of log.

But Faendal didn't bring the axe down. The sudden movement caught the corner of his eye as he stopped his tirade of silent curses and focused on the south gate; and the stranger that entered through. With his superior eyesight, Faendal could clearly see the man. A Bosmer, the stranger was lean built; a head taller than Sven. _Well that's odd. _Faendal thought. Their people didn't generally grow to this height, although tall Bosmer were not uncommon these days of globalization of races and cultures. The clean shaven face with a tinted green complexion, with a long nose and a sharp chin gave an impression of intelligence; his medium length jet-black hair was parted in the middle, the bangs almost kissing the tired emerald green eyes. The man wore a set of tattered leather armour, minus any helmet; he carried a hunting bow with a quiver of simple iron arrows on his back and a long steel dagger on his belt. _Some hunter, or maybe even a mercenary, probably returning from a quest._ Faendal thought. He didn't recognize the face; the stranger wasn't from these parts; here the community was so small everyone knew each other by faces and names.

"Strange; so many new faces in the village. Maybe Riverwood's becoming a tourist spot nowadays. Well, whatever." Faendal murmured to himself, and went back to his work. He had to chop another two stacks of wood now, and then go for his daily hunting trip to the forest. He simply couldn't waste his precious time looking at or after some visitor. That was Gerdur's work, not his. He raised his tool again, and this time, he brought it down.

* * *

Gerdur always liked the whetstone wheel. Its monotonous whirr that dulled every other sound in the vicinity always had this strange effect of calmness on her… every time it spun, every time the iron head of the woodcutter's axe struck it in a shower of sparks, Gerdur felt herself fade away from this world, as if going on an endless adventure, accompanied by the little stars emanating from the whetstone.

"A…Ahem."

Gerdur almost jumped out of her clothes at the sudden voice just behind her. Her hand slipped; and it was by Shor's immense grace that the axe-head didn't take her hand with it as it fell to the ground.

"What the bloody hell? Are people these days so blind that they don't have the common sense to see what others are doing? I could've lost an arm there." Gerdur yelled as she turned, finding herself facing a stranger. She didn't know this lean, tall man; who looked completely different than her employee Faendal… and absolutely ridiculous in that ill-fit baggy leather armour and that worn-out bow he was carrying. He was clearly the type of "glory-hunter" popping up in this time of civil strife… keen to make a quick septim or two. _But the thing is__,__kid; with the way you carry yourself, you wouldn't even last two minutes in a real fight._ Gerdur felt a tinge of pity for the young lad… compared to that mountain of a brother she had, the lad looked so puny, and brittle. _But hey, who knows what fate has in store for each of us?_

"Looking for work? Right now you could help Faendal with his logs; after that take a peek at the Sleeping Giant Inn. They keep the tabs of the local bounties. Though I think you have to share the bounty with the mercenary that came here a couple of days ago."

"You're Gerdur right? The head of the village?" the man completely ignored what she said and asked her… almost impishly. _Definitely knows nothing about fighting._

"Yeah. And I've told exactly what you need to know. So get going now lad; I've to sharpen the damn axe. And I haven't got all morning." Gerdur told him, turning to her unfinished work.

"Actually… I come with the news of Ralof."

Gerdur stopped mid-stance. _What does this greenhorn know about Ralof? He never mentioned having a Bosmer as a friend._ Gerdur looked at the stranger again, curious. But she didn't find any quality within him that would make her brother accept him as a friend_. Maybe he took pity on him, just like I did…. Or maybe…_ this option was far; far more likely- _…or maybe this lad right here is an Imperial spy. _That Ralof was her brother was an open secret, but that she was helping him and his cause was not. Everyone in the village and elsewhere knew that they didn't have any sort of relationship now, and it was made more believable after fake Stormcloak soldiers came and raided her house, apparently trying to kill her; under the "order" of her brother. _Have they found out?_

"You know that I know nothing about his whereabouts; and I'm not keen on knowing about his news either. Now if you would excuse me…" _This would probably thwart him. Probably._

"The Winds are cold, but the Furs stay warm."

This was the second time that day Gerdur was shocked and lost her composure. And it was caused by the same man, this strange stranger. The codeword, the utmost confidential secret that she and her brother shared; known only to the most trusted of his friends. It was the key that ensured and promised food, shelter, and help from the two-storeyed thatched house in the middle of the village to those desperate men who needed it. The lad knowing it means that Ralof had trusted him incredibly, and had accepted him among his closest friends.

But there was another thing that was the double security of his friendship and trust, a second key to the lock.

"Where is the key?"

"Key… what key? Sorry ma'am, but he never gave me any key. Only this."

She knew that ring immediately. The lad had really been accepted. _What did Akatosh do to Ralof? His giving the ring to this man is as unimaginable as a mammoth eating meat!_ Gerdur was doubly interested.

"So what about my baby brother? How's he doing? Last I heard he was on a secret rendezvous with the commanders at the Darkwater Crossing. How did it go?" Gerdur leaned towards the man, whispering conspiratorially. Her employee, Faendal was a well known Imperial supporter; some even said that the imperial army posted him to this mill just to keep an eye on her and Hod.

"Umm… how to say this…" the stranger averted his eyes.

And the whetstone wheel never whirred again that day.


	6. Chapter 5 : RIVERWOOD : Part 2

**RIVERWOOD**

**PART: II**

_Well, that went quite well._

Elisvan thought to himself as he exited Gerdur's house and started on his way to the Sleeping Giant Inn.

He had told the tale of the Stormcloak Hero like a true bard… how Ralof, armed with nothing but an iron axe thwarted the incoming force of four steel-clad Imperials single-handedly… how he braved the unearthly meteors to make sure that others of his contingent escaped safely… how even the deadly thunderbolts of the Imperial torturer were no match for him… Elisvan told Gerdur how the hero of Riverwood pushed the Bosmer stranger he met just a few minutes ago out of the harm's way when the almost invisible fire trap went off, only to get trapped inside the intense flames himself… and finally, how the brave one breathed his last in the arms of the same Bosmer, telling the poor soul how it wasn't his fault, how laying down one's own life for the sake of his friend was the greatest of honour a Nord can achieve… how the doors of Sovngarde would accept him with wide open arms. He regaled the moment where with his dying breath, the Nord had asked the Bosmer to seek help from his sister in Riverwood, and inform her of the dragon attack. Elisvan paused at the right places, almost giving a poetic feel to the epic tale. He even shed a drop or two of his tears to play the mortally-bereaved-sentimental-poor-man part. And the results were just as he expected them to be.

He smiled.

As he neared the heavy doors of the establishment, the sun finally dipped behind the mountains for the day. The silhouette of the twin moons in the cloudless, darkening sky indicated that Elisvan had spent almost the entire day in Gerdur's house, spinning fantastic tales of her brother's deeds. She didn't ask him to stay the night at her house, but she did provide him with enough money to rent a room at the inn and for the journey to Whiterun the next day; after all, it's hard to spend the night with someone who's the reason your brother died. But it was within Elisvan's expectations. His role of the unintentional cause of Ralof's death made his story much more believable… and that was much more profitable to him than a night's hospitality.

The little bell above him jingled merrily as he pushed open the door into the largest building in Riverwood. The hubbub inside washed over him like a warm breeze in a chilly night, upping his already good mood considerably. It was a neat establishment, with polished stone floor and two opposing rows of long tables. A merry fire crackled in the hearth… surrounded by a group of simple men and women in wooden chairs, laughing and relaxing after the hard day's work with a mug or two in their hand, utterly oblivious of the cataclysm that leveled the town right next to them just two days ago. The sweet scent of spiced mead filled the air of the inn, wonderfully complimenting the delicious scent of the roasting meat that came from the kitchen below. As he made his way towards the counter Elisvan saw one of the merry people, an old Nord with a huge bald head and flowing dark brown beard stand up, puff his cheeks and start telling an old tale. Everyone around the fire tore away their attention from their mugs of mead and concentrated on him.

_And whatever happens in the outside world… people manage to get on happily with their own gods damned lives._

The man behind the counter, a middle aged, not-so-bright looking Nord with a scraggly beard and dark, unruly shoulder-length hair was totally unaware of the events that went around in his establishment. He was so intent on the mug he was scrubbing over and over again that he never even noticed the new customer. Only after Elisvan cleared his throat twice, and quite loudly, to boot… did the man look up, with the most uninterested face he had ever seen on an innkeeper.

"Huh? Whaddya want?"

"Well, a room for the night and some dinner would be nice." Elisvan wanted to sound cheerful, but the boredom radiating from the inn-keeper was so intense that it permeated into him, making his voice sound hollow in his ears, cracked and without feelings.

"Ah. That would be fifty septims. Go upstairs and take the room on the left, the one just opposite to the door. It's yours for the day. Check-out time is 7o'clock in the morning; a minute after and you pay for the next day. The food is being prepared right now, so until it comes up you can join the little group by the fire… or if you prefer the silent type you can accompany that man over there on the bench."

The motionless lump that the inn-keep was pointing at could very easily be mistaken for a large sack. The 'man' was so still that Elisvan had completely missed him when he entered the inn. Covered from head to toe in a rough gray cloak, he sat hunched over the table. A large mug with a dark liquid, perhaps ale sat in front of him, untouched.

"Who's he?"

"Him? He's a stranger, same as you. Came to Riverwood three days ago, on some personal 'business'… or so he says. A mercenary, I think. He's probably looking after the robbery down at Lucan's too. Drinks less, talks lesser. A peculiar one, e'en for an orc."

"An orc huh! Where's he from?"

"Go ask him yerself. I've got my hands too full to gossip with you. Here, this one's on the house." The innkeeper put the now impeccably clean mug on the counter, filled it with dark ale, pushed it towards him and picked up another mug, proceeding to assault it with the cleaning rag with redoubled intensity and concentration… he looked even more bored.

_End of conversation, eh?_ Elisvan thought as he picked up his mug and went over to the bench where the orc sat. He interest was piqued by the uniqueness of the fellow.

"Mind if I take a seat?"

"…"

Elisvan sat down beside the orc. The people by the fire clapped and cheered as the old man finished his tale.

"Quite a rowdy bunch, eh?"

"…"

"Heard you're here on some secret 'business'?" Elisvan whispered, as if conspiring. "Off on an adventure, are you?"

"Piss off. Or I'll make you." The orc snarled at him. The thick, almost black lower lips parted to show his huge, milky white fangs which, coupled with the bloodshot eyes and the scarred face made it clear that the recent company was totally and utterly unwanted.

"Okay! Okay! No need to be on the edge now! I was just trying to strike a conversation; you seemed lonely by yourse-"

"I SAID, Piss of-!"

"You… You bastard!"

Both of them stopped their little talk and turned to look at the group gathered round the fire where another drama was underway now.

"Me? The fact that Camilla ditched you makes me a bastard now is it?" Elisvan recognized the Nord as Sven, the self-proclaimed bard of Riverwood he spoke with this morning about the whereabouts of Ralof's sister. His target was a lanky Bosmer, a new arrival to the inn; the man had his fair face red with anger and eyes leveled dangerously. On hearing this, he flared up instantly.

"Ditch-, why you pompous little twat! Camilla ditched me! To go out with you? HA! You think you're worthy of her? You're two scores and eight Sven, and still you make your mother feed you. The only 'Talent' you have is that donkey-voice that is more useful in driving animals out than singing songs! And you think MY Camilla will choose someone… someone like… you?" the Bosmer almost screamed.

_Well something interesting does happen here!_ Elisvan thought as he watched the altercation.

"Choose me? Oh no! No, Faendal, she ALREADY CHOSE me over you and your beardless face and girly braids! It is me who can make her blush with my soft sonnets and beautiful letters! It is I who has her heart in my hands! And it is me, Sven who will marry Camilla Valerius, not you Faendal!"

"Keep your daydreams to yourself Nord, and leave us alone! And this is the last time I'll warn you… stay away from Camilla Valerius…. Or else…"

"Or else what? You gonna poke me with those needles you call a…r...r…o...w…s?"

"Huh… you're not even worthy of that. I'll just cave your face in, with my fists."

"Oh really? Then let us see how much of a punch you got there milksop! Right here… right now! We will decide who the better suitor is right here! In front of everybody of the village!" and with this, the Nord ditched his lute and charged towards the Bosmer, in an effort to body-slam him.

Faendal just sidestepped the move, and as his opponent ran past, he gave a push, increasing Sven's momentum that caused him to crash into the opposite table.

"So be it." Faendal said as Sven started to scramble up from where he crashed.

_That escalated quickly. _"Hey, shouldn't you do something about that?" Elisvan called out to the barkeep, who was still rubbing that poor mug from before.

"Do what?" He called back, still uninterested.

"Like, you know… stop them or something?"

"They do it all the time since last three months, though fighting with each other is a first. Anyways it's not my problem. Delphine handles these things… and either way, they will pay for the broken furniture… they always do. Nobody wants to make Delphine mad. Nobody." He focused again on the mug.

* * *

The crowd cheered as Sven finally stood up; with a heavy mug in his hand. And in a perfect illustration of 'deciding things with fists'… threw it straight towards Faendal's head. It missed its mark completely, sailed across the hall, and struck the orc squarely at the back of his head.

_Now that should get a rise out of him!_ Elisvan thought as he inched away from the mercenary who, not at all pleased by the impact grunted menacingly and looked towards the source of the flying mug.

* * *

When the mug he threw missed its intended mark, Sven had completely ignored its trajectory and instead focused on getting his hands on Faendal. The bloody elf was slippery as an eel, and whenever he tried to grab him, Faendal somehow broke free, and managed to land a punch here and there. So he tried a different approach. He started moving towards his opponent like he was going to grab him… and intentionally let him break free. When the unsuspecting wood-elf tried to land another punch… Sven caught the incoming fist with his open palm, and yanked his hand, head-butting the staggered Faendal in the process.

"Great job Sven!" Embry cheered for him.

But as Faendal fell, he swept his leg, staggering Sven; who managed to stay on his feet by grabbing his opponent by the scruff of his neck… in turn getting a sharp jab at his solar plexus.

"Break his face!" Alvor yelled as the crowd "Ooh"-ed at them.

* * *

Elisvan looked on as the mercenary got off his seat, unnoticed as almost everyone had their whole attention on the ongoing scuffle. The man was short… almost too short… especially for an orc, who were the tallest of all the races in Tamriel. The mercenary's head barely leveled his chest. That; coupled with the heavy build, those ridiculously large fangs and disproportionately large hands and feet made him look more like a court fool than a warrior. Elisvan could barely check his laughter as the mercenary waddled towards the centre of the hall, where the fight was taking place. The thought of that puny man jumping and shouting to get a hold of the two fighters was ridiculous.

But all he saw was a flurry of movement, and suddenly the two men, a Nord and a Bosmer, were being held by the collar, writhing like fishes out of water in those huge hands of the orc. The whole room went silent as the grave.

"Take. Your. Petty. Fight. Elsewhere." He growled at them… his voice dangerously low, halting at each word. The two men looked as if overwhelmed by the burning yellow eyes that stared at them from below the thick eyebrows. "This is the ONLY warning I'll give you two… the next time, you won't have hands left to fight with." The gleam of his fangs confirmed that it was not a hollow threat. And with that, he dropped the two men and went back to his seat, not even waiting to hear any response.

"Wow, that was-"

"Ah, I almost forgot. You. Are you always this annoyingly talkative?" The little brute turned towards Elisvan and glared though those flaming yellows.

"Well, they say it's a gift." Elisvan replied.

"Then keep your gift to yourself. No need to share it with others. Please." Though that didn't sound like a request. At all.

"Orgnar! Orgnar, the ale's going- oh by the Divines! What the hell happened here?" The Breton woman in her early fifties who entered the room from the kitchen below stopped dead in her tracks… dumbfounded at the mess of broken furniture that lay in front of her.

"It has been taken care of." Orgnar replied; and called out to his customers, "Take a seat people, the food's done."

_The little guy has some serious spunk._ Elisvan thought as he sat down beside the orc mercenary, albeit maintaining a fair distance from him.

The food was very good… and as Elisvan tore off a large chunk of the roasted boar he was given; the first real meal he had in two days after he escaped Helgen and started on his way towards Riverwood, his thoughts drifted from the orc to the taste of lemon that complimented the boar meat beautifully, to the matters at hand. First thing he had to do in the morning as he left the town was to ditch the armour he scavenged off from that bandit camp just south to the point where he exited the keep. Killing them was easy enough, and they provided an excellent place to hide the bodies of Vilas and Hilde.

He had to go to Whiterun… firstly to wait for his friend, the old cat Ri'saad and his band of travelers to come along… and secondly to go Dragonsreach, delivering the letter of request for help from Gerdur. She had been very persuasive, and he accepted it thinking it as the something he should do to atone for the killing of her brother, at least in part, especially since all he had to do was to hand that scrap of paper to the guardsman by the door. And after that… a little trip to the face sculptor at the Ratway, a new face, a new name … and freedom. Sure, he lost about twenty thousand Septims that day… but he got away with unharmed, and the only thing he had learnt in his five centuries of life was that good things come to those who were ready to be patient.

_Well this has gone quite well._ He smiled at soon-to-be-discarded reflection of his face on the bottle of Honningbrew mead.


	7. Chapter 6 : THE BARROW

**THE BARROW**

* * *

Fredas, 5th of Sun's Dawn, 4E 201

_May Malacath's blessings be always upon us._

Since I haven't got the time to actually write my journal for the last three days, and so much has happened since then, I think this latest entry will be a lot, lot longer than most.

Telling the time in a Nordic crypt is a futile effort, as I've learned from my multiple trips there… though if I were to take a wild guess, I would put the time outside at about 5 P.M.

The job this time was simple. Go to Riverwood; flash the letter of the Jarl's express order and obtain the artifact named Golden Claw from the merchant named Lucan Valerius, who would be receiving it from some anonymous seller through a trade caravan; make your way up the "absolutely safe and well maintained road" to the Bleak Falls Barrow; kill some skeevers and frostbite spiders, maybe one or two Draugr guards; obtain another artifact that loony court wizard called the 'Dragonstone'; and take it back to Dragonsreach. Two-fifty septims sounded a fair payment.

But what no one ever mentioned was that the 'road' was a mountain goat trail infested with wolves… the watchtower that was supposed to be looking after the trail was now a bandit hideout… and most importantly, the 'one or two' Draugr turned out to be a whole legion of them. Every single sarcophagus had its lid open. As I sit here, exhausted and irritated in front of this massive door that will lead me to the innermost sanctum, writing my journal again after three days… behind me lie the bodies of fifty-seven of those undead bastards. And I don't know how many are still waiting for me on the other side of this door.

To make matters even worse, the claw was not even there. After much lamenting and trying to cover it up on his part… and a little bit of not-so-subtle threats on mine… Lucan finally divulged to me that he had a break in, just the day after the trade caravan came to town. Surprisingly, the thief only took the claw, and left everything else untouched. Though the shopkeeper was only concerned with its monetary value and how the theft would affect his reputation around the town and the Hold… I was much more worried as I suspected that the knowledge of what it was and what it did turned out not to be so much a well-guarded secret as the Jarl of Whiterun led me to believe.

Oh how I hate these uncivilized brutes and their petty politics! Always trying to stab each other in the back… father against son, brother against brother, sister against mother… as our wise woman once said, kill them all, and the world as we know it would be a much better place. As I write my journal in the fading light of the blood soaked lamp I've scavenged from a dead bandit… I can confirm that she was right; especially so.

The sister of Lucan was a sweet girl. She was the one who informed me of the aforementioned wolves and bandits on the way to the Barrow. That bit of info put my plans off, and the last two nights were spent thinking and rethinking plans to enter the Barrow, as I reasoned that the thief would be taking the claw there; and would most likely not be going alone.

The innkeeper was a good man, served good food and ale, and never asked too many questions. The only thing that happened in the inn worth mentioning was a petty fight that broke out between two men yesterday night, presumably lovers caught up in a love triangle involving some girl named Camilla. I didn't intend to take part, but after one of them… a Nord called Sven threw a mug at me, I had to intervene. A good smack and all was well. After that- Ah, I almost forgot; there was this wood elf; a tall one, in an ill-fitting set of leather armour who tried to talk to me last night, in an oh-so-friendly manner. As soon as I saw him, I went on guard. The man looked like a clumsy idiot with a big mouth, but his eyes betrayed his cheerful façade. The man was immensely dangerous. The look in his eyes screamed that he had arguably much more experience in combat than me… I've never met a man before that didn't even squint when I fixed him intently with my gaze and bared my fangs at him. To be truthful, I was kind of scared; so I tried giving him the impression that I was in a bad mood, in an attempt to put him off. Apparently that seemed to work, as he didn't pursue the conversation forward. Thank Malacath for that. Whatever reason he was here for I don't know, but I do pray to Malacath that we don't meet again, ever.

I left Riverwood at about 3 A.M in the morning, before anyone even woke up; and went on my way straight to the Barrow. The early morning fog made it a bit difficult to see, and I had some problems noticing those damn mountain wolves that awaited me on my path. One of those feral beasts even managed to sneak up behind me and land a bite on my left leg; and it was through the immense grace of Malacath and the plate armour I'm wearing that I'm here with both of my legs intact.

Anyways, after the beasts had been taken care of I made my way to the stone watchtower overlooking the Barrow. And surprise awaited me even there. I chose the dawn because I figured no one would be awake at that time. But I was wrong. There were two guards in scaled armour patrolling in front of the stone structure… on the lookout for intruders. Luckily for me the fog that had disrupted my vision for the major part of my journey had the same effect on the guards' eyes; and I wasn't spotted by the bastards, and that helped me get close, unnoticed.

At first I wasn't sure what to do, sneak away unnoticed or kill the bandits. After a lot of speculations I voted against the former. As our wise woman once said, "Never keep an enemy behind, or he will stab you in the back" these men I would leave behind could easily become reinforcements.

The first one, a Redguard with jet-black flowing beard and one of those crazy hairdos of theirs who stood below a snow-laden pine died swiftly and painlessly, with a thick short crossbow bolt that went right through his chest. As always I was astonished by how much power this crazy wonder of a weapon can possess. I was gifted it by my clan-mate Durak, the second-in-command of the new order of Vampire Hunters called the Dawnguard after I helped him with clearing a little coven of Vampires holing up at a local cave. Those vampires were a real menace, led by a powerful master vampire who was so skilled in necromancy that we two had to keep killing those same underlings over and over again as he repeatedly resurrected them. And he had such a powerful sword that- Ah, here we go again, trailing off from the main point. Sorry, my bad. Phew, who knew that keeping a journal would be so damn hard!

So, now to the second bandit; the one that went inside the building in his patrol. The Khajiit drew his weapon instinctively as he heard the thud of his partner's body hit the stone bridge. I couldn't get a clear shot due to those stone spurs that jutted out of the walls of that little stone bridge he was standing on, so I waited for him. He turned and looked towards the area where the sound came from, but his superior night vision couldn't brave the dense fog. So he went over to the place where his former partner was just standing. I even heard him say "Hey Chark, you alright there?" and stopped, seeing the body lying in the snow. But before he could reach for his warning horn slung on his belt, I threw two of my throwing axes at him, and by Malacath's immense grace, both of them hit their mark. The Khajiit dropped down wheezing, with the two weapons embedded in his chest.

With the two of them taken care of, I went up the building. It was an easy business; the two bandits sleeping inside didn't even notice me coming, or maybe they did, and dismissed the sounds as coming from the scale armour of their guard comrades… but whatever they thought didn't bother me the least. That they died without a sound, beheaded by the single stroke of my battleaxe to their necks, is all that matters to me. However, what DID bother me was the fact that there were only two of them in the building; that was supposed to be the headquarters of a bandit hideout. So I lit the bedside lamp and went through their belongings stored in a chest. It turned out to be of the leader of the bandits, a Nord woman who was the second to be killed by my axe. I found a journal inside her belongings that cleared this whole odd situation up.

All of the writing was just drivel, full of meaningless words and odd choice of grammar. Well, a well-educated Nord warrior is always too much to ask for. But after almost half an hour of examining and re-examining the pages, straining my intellect to its utter limits, and watching parts of my brain die in front of me, I finally unearthed four major points of importance from the journal. One, there were twelve of them. Two, the remaining eight of the bandit force had gone out to the Barrow, supposedly helping some Dunmer named Arvel the Swift, who turned out to be our thief. He was there to complete a 'job' using the Golden Claw. Three, they had left for the Barrow yesterday morning… that means I may have the good luck of skipping the whole of the crypt and just taking the claw and the artifact from the dead bodies of the returning bandits. And finally, the most disturbing of all; they were working under the orders of someone she called 'The Benefactor'. He was supposed to be a man of some import in the Jarl Balgruuf's court, and incredibly wealthy; as he not only promised the entire bandit force a payment of two thousand septims each for the delivery of the artifact in time at the designated place, but also promised to _'onsure thi imuniti we are enjoying now will cuntinoo in future.'_ Not only that, he also had prior information of my assignment, as is evident from the line _'Our Bonefactur ulso told us of a mursenary _(at this point my sanity almost left me) _who will come for the atrifact. He sed we should kill him. He dangerus. But I sed a puny mursenary will be no mach for our maight.'_

Fortunately for me the journal entry also contained the precise locations and postings of the bandit forces. I have to admit, though her literary ability was non-existent, she was a capable commander. The positions of her forces were very precise and well thought-out.

After I read that, I spend some more time thinking about the current situation. Since I now knew the plans of the bandits, I had an advantage over them. Based on that information I formed a plan. And after taking the two fat coin purses just lying there ripe for the taking, made my way back down the tower.

Let's skip to the part where I entered the Barrow proper through the huge iron double-doors. The fighting before that wasn't a memorable one… too much screaming and blood and begging for mercy. Standard stuff.

The Barrow reeked of death and decay and mold and paper and oil and some things I didn't even know existed. Powerful, ancient magick. The initial two halls were streaked with the dead bodies of skeevers. The sheer number of those overgrown rats was staggering. They must have swarmed upon the intruders that had raided their lair, their home for countless generations. As I saw their bodies, I must admit, I felt a tinge of pity for those poor animals. Weren't we the same? Wouldn't we all do the same thing as them in face of an invasion of our homes? And yet, in our case we are freedom fighters, revolutionaries… and they're just pests.

So it can be understood why I almost cried out loud when I saw the body of one of the bandits that entered the Barrow as Arvel's personal guard; his throat torn out by a particularly vicious looking skeever, that itself died by the terrible axe-blow to the head.

I found the two of the remaining three people just few halls further down, sitting around a makeshift fire and chatting. One of them, a Nord in his late thirties had an inadequately bound dressing on his left leg, barely covering the large ragged wound that spattered across the appendage. Probably a farewell gift from one of the dead skeevers outside. He winced in pain now and then as he talked.

As I hid myself behind a particularly massive stone carving of a Dragon and listened to their conversation I learned some interesting facts. For one, both of them had stayed as guards due to the Nord's (his name was Wilhelm) inability to continue further due to his injury; and apparently none of the other two had returned from the crypt below since they went down almost a day ago. What managed to keep them there was the fear of what their leader would do to them if they went back empty-handed.

Having learned what I needed to learn, I once again put my heavy crossbow to good use. The Khajiit went down so suddenly that the Nord was dumbstruck for several moments; giving me ample time to lop his head off with a swift blow. And with that, I again continued down the path deeper into the bowels of the crypt.

I found the body of the last man who went with Arvel lying face down, his body a porcupine of arrows, in a strange room, filled with weird pillars and carvings of faces with their tongues sticking out, each bearing symbols of either dragon, or eagle or a whale. He lay in front of a lever… and in front of him was an open metal gate. Though I was thoroughly perplexed then, as I write this entry now, I think I understand what happened. The room was a puzzle room, where you had to solve a complex puzzle that most likely had something to do with those pillars and those symbols. The man was unfortunate. He probably pulled the lever without thinking about the consequences, and got hit by the barrage of arrows that came out through the hidden arrow slots. The open gate was probably the work of Arvel, who unlike his comrade actually took his time and solved the puzzle. Cunning bastard.

Whatever. I started to be doubly cautious; because in my many trips in these kind of Nordic crypts I've learned something, and that is when the traps start appearing, so do the Draugr.

Trouble started after I passed the third corridor. I suddenly found myself in a three-way battle between an utterly humongous frostbite spider, a horde of Draugr and a Dunmer, with a few of those undead bastards lying on the floor, dead again.

To be absolutely honest to Malacath, it was an amusing fight. I hid myself and saw the spider and Arvel fight together, mer and animal, prey and predator, beings totally opposite in the spectrum of intelligence and ferocity allied with each other, fighting the horde of Draugr that were hell –bent on exterminating everything living. The battle was intense. I've never in my long life of one hundred and fifty years seen a fight like that. The spider trapped the Draugr in its sticky web while Arvel ran the monster through with his blade, in turn being protected from a massive swing of a battleaxe by the crushing fangs of the spider ripping the attacker into pieces.

But however hard they fought; the two were no match for the untiring undead. Arvel was the first to go, an arrow that went through his eye-socket. He died instantly, before even hitting the ground. The spider though, put up a huge fight, bringing the number of attackers down to only two. It only went down after the two remaining Draugr systematically chopped off its eight legs, and then finished it off with twin greatsword blows to the head.

I thanked not only Malacath but also both spider and Arvel for making my job a lot easier as I finally joined the fray; killing one with a crossbow bolt to the eye and beheading the other after I broke though its clumsy block and staggered it.

I found the claw in Arvel's pocket, along with his journal, that revealed that he was to be paid triple if he double crossed his leader and the 'Benefactor' and gave the artifact along with the claw to another person, this one named 'Player'. So he had planned to lure his companions to the Draugr and escape while they fought the undead. But unfortunately, his plan backfired… and he now lies dead in this crypt, forgotten by everyone but time.

Very surprisingly though, I found a map of the crypt given to Arvel by the 'Player', mentioning a secret corridor out of the Barrow, one which is operable only from the inside, opening in an area many kilometers away from the bandit camp, totally bypassing both the camp and the long trek back through the Barrow to reach outside. He was planning to use that secret corridor to escape without his comrades even knowing about what had happened.

The journal also mentioned the secret of the Golden claw. In reality, it was a key to a door that led one to the innermost sanctum of the Barrow, where the artifact is located. (I'm writing right now in front of that aforementioned massive door). But he didn't know how it actually worked. Only thing he mentioned was that the 'Player" said to him "the claw itself would show the way." Though I was again confused about this, it's clear to me now. On the 'palm' of the claw are carved in order from top to bottom a carving of a fox, moth, and owl. Which I'm certain is the order the carvings on these three huge rings adorning the door should be ordered so as to open it. I'll try that out after my break is over and I've got enough energy back in my legs and hands to venture into the inner chamber.

Anyways, I took the claw and the map and ventured further down into the Draugr infested chambers of the Barrow. Apparently the huge fight upstairs had managed to wake every single sleeping undead in the crypt. And they were eagerly waiting below to take my head off my shoulders.

I won't elaborate on my fights with the monsters, my entry has become too long already for my liking. It should be enough to mention that there was a lot of wheezing and cursing in Ancient Nordic on their part, and a lot of 'Yeeeargh!' and 'For Malacath!' on mine. And especially a Lot of luck; like the stray boulder that took the full force of the magick the Nords call the 'Shout' while I smugly took cover behind it… that propelled me to destroy every bastard who stood against me. Malacath be praised for my safely reaching this far into the crypt.

And now finally, I'm here. In front of this massive door in a hall covered from the floor to ceiling in beautiful carvings from the Mythic Era. I will stop my quill here. The light of the lamp is fading, and I've still to take a little nap before I unlock the door and go inside to complete the last part of my job. I do hope that I will be able to write about what happened there in my diary tomorrow, after safely exiting the Bleak Falls Barrow.

_May Malacath save us all._


	8. Chapter 7 : THE COMISSION :PART I

**A/N:** _S__o sorry for the late update... got kinda caught up in some problems that has made it a bit difficult to write and update as fast as I would've liked. Nevertheless, thank you for putting up with the delay. Happy Hunting!_

* * *

**THE COMMISSION**

**PART : I**

* * *

"Congratulations. You slaughtered an emaciated beggar in cold blood. You are truly an opponent to be feared."

_That old Redguard is at it again. Pssh. Him and his bloody bad jokes._ Veezara mused to himself as he lay on his back chewing on a stalk of fire-weed. From his abode, the large boulder on the bank of the huge underground lake around which the Falkreath Sanctuary was built; he could clearly see Nazir, sitting on his favourite set of table and chair beside the hearth, or the 'Reception Hall' as he calls it, giving out the reward money for completion of the job to the newest recruit of their frighteningly dwindling brotherhood.

"So, do you have any other jobs for me?" the mystical voice of the new hatchling, an Altmeri lass named Lilina or what she called herself had a tinge of orange in it; she was clearly not very happy at his joke.

_An assassin's neither face nor voice should ever be this beautiful; it makes you stand out instantly in a crowd. This is why Altmers suck so much in this profession._ Veezara thought as he observed her lithe, athletic form standing there, hands on her hips.

"As a matter of fact I do. Your next target is an ex-mill-owner, is name is Ennodius Papius. You know Anga's Mill near Windhelm?" Nazir asked as he handed Lilina, as always, the parchment containing all the details of the job.

_Now it begins._ Veezara cocked his head to the side to get a clearer view of the exotic thing and the old Redguard sitting in front of her with his hands crossed over his chest. An amused expression crossed his face as he saw the golden skin of the Altmer gradually turn a shade of bright crimson as she went through the details of the job... there was a moment of utter silence in the Hall of the Black Water as she finished it and put it back on the table. And then the screaming began.

"What in the bloody Oblivion is this supposed to mean?" Lilina yelled at the top of her lungs.

"What?" Nazir replied with a question of his own. His voice remained ice cold and his expression leveled like always, when he was reading a book, giving out contracts, or slitting a man's throat.

"What 'What'? What is this?" Lilina yelled, pointing at the scrap of parchment.

"As far as I see it, it is your contract, the next name on the hit list you're going to kill." Nazir had stood up now. And that, as Veezara knew by virtue of working together with the Redguard for this many years, meant he was irritated. Though his face and voice remained as calm as ever.

"My contract! The next name on the Hit List! Big words to describe an old paranoid funny-in-the head coot that spends his days counting the pebbles of the river-bank! By Stendarr, who the bloody Void do you think I am?" Lilina was almost fuming now. Veezara thought whether he should try and place an egg on her head, it may come out hard-boiled. _Ah… eggs_, he thought. So many days had passed him by since he last ate eggs…

"It appears that you know the guy." Nazir's curt reply brought him back to reality.

"Yes, indeed! Indeed, I know that charming fellow! How brilliant of you to notice!" Lilina screamed, sarcasm dripping from her voice. "First you send me to kill a beggar who just sat there and smiled at me like a fool as I slit his throat… then make smart comments about the job; and Then Again send me to kill this guy. What's up with You sending Me to kill madmen? Do you really think I'm that incompetent to do a real job?"

"In Hammerfell the young recruits in the army spend their first three months chasing Ostriches and collecting chicken eggs… at least you got some real work to do. I would be happy with that."

"I don't care what happens in Hammerfell. I don't care about your… your stupid rules, and crazy customs and stuff. All I care is whether I get a contract worthy enough to test my skills. And YOU, old man, seem to have a problem with that."

_This is getting quite interesting_. Veezara thought as he spat out his weed and focused on the altercation. The hatchling was either very foolish, or very, very brave. Speaking to Nazir like that took guts.

"You have quite the spirit, young lady. But as I've said before, it takes more, much more than that to impress me." Nazir continued, and surprisingly, not in an unfriendly manner, "You can be the Battlemage for the Emperor of Tamriel for all I care. But as long as you're here in this sanctuary, and I'm the taskmaster, you WILL do the jobs that I give you. No questions asked. So why don't you stop badgering me and go to your quarters and get ready? You've got work to do." Nazir sat down again and pulled another stack of parchment towards him, concentrating on his work.

"No."

_Definitely foolish, not brave._

There was an awkward moment of silence. Then Nazir looked up from his papers.

"Come again?"

"I said I won't do the job. Change it."

"I thought you can hear pretty well, has it changed since the last job? Did Narfi do something to mess up your hearing? Because that would be a real shame." The voice of the Redguard, though sarcastic as always, had a hardness creeping into it. Veezara wondered if he should intervene.

"Keep your sarcasm to yourself Nazir. I've had enough of that for today. I'm not doing this skeever-shit of a job you got there. I'm here in this brotherhood of yours for jobs that provide me with a challenge; and I'm going to get them, even if it means beating your sorry ass back to Yokuda. "

_Shit, bad move._ Veezara hurried himself up as Nazir stood up from his chair, his hands caressing the wicked looking glass daggers that hung at his side.

"Was that supposed to mean that you want to duel me for the role of the taskmaster of the sanctuary?" Nazir's voice, having lost all its calmness, was dangerously low.

_Shit. This is going out of hand quickly._

"I'm pretty sure I made it sound just like that." Lilina retorted as she readied herself, arcane lightning suddenly crackling at the centre of her palms.

"Hey, hey..." Veezara jumped down from his perch and hurried towards the two. He had to stop this from escalating further, or someone would end up dead. That old Redguard didn't know how to hold back; and once he takes out his daggers… Veezara shuddered.

But before he could reach them, a huge shape suddenly materialized almost out of nowhere and tackled Lilina, sending her right off her feet. Before the lass could even react to this sudden distraction, she found herself utterly immobilized, her hands pinned down by two huge striped paws.

As the initial bout of astonishment passed away, Veezara quickly turned towards the Redguard, fearing the worst. But Nazir's hand had already left the hilts of his beloved daggers. He relaxed.

_Babette was right. The cat is quite skilled._ He thought as he eyed the huge form effortlessly holding down the lithe elf, who was flailing and screaming, trying in vain to escape from those iron grips.

"Let me go Dro! This is between me and Nazir! It… doesn't… concern… you!" Lilina struggled hard, but to no avail.

"Dro'Zah seems to think otherwise." The Cathay-raht spoke in his characteristic deep, rumbling voice. "Has Lilina thought about the repercussions of her brazen action?" He paused as Lilina stopped struggling, a bit. "Even if Lilina won against Nazir, which she couldn't, considering her inability to spot Dro'Zah creeping up on her…" the Altmer was about to start a fresh stream of explanations, but was promptly cut off by the growl of the Khajiit, who continued;"…yes, even if Lilina won against Nazir, it would be considered crime against the Brotherhood, and against the dark lord. And I think she knows well enough what that means. Even the Thalmor cannot save her from the dread father's wrath. And Dro'Zah doesn't really want to fight against every dark brotherhood member in Tamriel to protect her backside."

Veezara could swear by The Hist he saw the lass blush. He looked at Nazir, who… to his amazement gave him an amused wink, turned around started for his table_. Safe, finally_. The old age was clearly getting to the Redguard… he had never been a man to forgive someone this quickly. _Well, whatever._

Veezara was glad that today's drama didn't end on a bloody note; unlike most others that occur from time to time in this sanctuary of theirs.

"Lilina should apologise to the taskmaster for her rude behavior."

"But Dro… "

"No 'buts' little elf… she has almost broken the rule of the Brotherhood, and she Will apologise…" The Khajiit growled. "Though if she refuses, Dro'Zah fights her. And he thinks Lilina doesn't want that." He added.

"Okay, okay. I'll apologise." Lilina scrambled to her feet as the huge cat finally let her go. She faced Nazir and bowed in the ceremonial style of the Altmer.

"Uhmm… ehmm… I apologise for the rudeness, taskmaster. I was in the wrong for trying to instigate a fight with you. For that I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted." Nazir replied, the anger in his voice almost gone. "I want to tell you something kid; remember this, these jobs are ones which actually contribute to feeding the family. To be utterly honest with you, I also share some of your frustration at the level of the jobs we get… but unfortunately for us, these kinds of contracts are the only ones we are getting recently."

Veezara decided to finally join in the conversation. "High profile political assassination contracts are all but gone in this time of Civil War, where there is no reason for subtlety… and with the official banning of the Brotherhood in the Empire, coupled with the identification and destruction of so many of our Sanctuaries across Tamriel by those damned Penitus Oculatus, our popularity has plummeted drastically. And that, as you can see lass, has impacted both the level of our contracts as well as our numbers. So don't think you're the only one disappointed by your bad luck."

Lilina turned towards him. "I… I didn't know that."

"Of course you didn't. That's the reason why you are a recruit." Nazir chuckled.

"Can't we… you know… somehow do something?"

"Well, for the moment, we cannot. Astrid has a plan in her mind… but it will take a lot of money, and we're seriously short on funds. So right now what you can do to make sure you actually get the chance to get better contracts than these is to take each and every job seriously and complete them diligently. Oh… did I mention this job of yours has a bonus?"

"Bonus? What bonus?" Lilina asked as she walked towards the Reception.

"Well what you've got to do is…"

"Hey Veezara?" Veezara's attention was diverted from the conversation by the sharp whisper. Dro'Zah was beckoning him.

"What?" He whispered back as he started walking towards the Khajiit, who was already walking towards the exit of the Hall of the Black Water.

"Dro'Zah actually came here to find you. And then inadvertently got mixed up in that mess."

"To find me? But why?" Veezara asked, puzzled.

"The Lady has asked for us two."

"Us two? Astrid?"

The question must have showed in his eyes, because the Khajiit spoke, "Dro'Zah doesn't know. The Lady only told him that it was something of an important job and Dro'Zah should take Veezara and meet with her as soon as possible in her chambers."

"Ah, very well." Veezara increased his pace to catch up to the cat.


End file.
